Fortress of Mist (11 page)

“Please,” he said. “I have no place to turn but to you. And your fright convinces me that you know more than you want to reveal.”

There was a possibility—all too good—that Thomas had long since seen through her disguise. Perhaps he’d known even when he approached her and Hawkwood in the market to inquire about henbane and mandrake and poppy.

Yes, if Thomas had already become one of the Druids, it would serve them to have Thomas pretend ignorance. Then, if Katherine and Hawkwood accepted him into their ranks, he could spy for the Druids.

If so, she could play his game. Cautiously. She would act as if Thomas truly was searching for answers, but make no commitment to expose who she was. The stakes were too great to place trust in Thomas.

“If I speak, I will die,” Katherine said, hugging herself and shivering. “The very trees have ears, and they will know what I have revealed and punish me for it.”

“Trees do not have ears,” he said. “This conversation is only between you and me. And already you have revealed that there is danger, and that someone is part of it. When you say ‘they,’ who do you mean?”

“No! You trick me with words!”

“I only listen closely.”

“I have nothing more to say.” To be true to her role, this reluctance was required.

He smiled sadly. “Then I go forth, telling everyone in earshot about the old woman herbalist who revealed all the secrets about the strange symbol. That will get back to them soon enough, and then, if what you
fear is true, you most surely will be dead. So choose. Safely tell me what you know, or remain silent and condemn yourself.”

To properly play her role, there was only one answer for Katherine to give.

“Go then,” she said. “Tell the world I’ve spilled all that I know. Go then, and pass a death sentence on an old woman. For I will tell you nothing. Either way, you will not gain answers from me.”

“You have until three nights from now to change your mind,” Thomas said. “If not, you shall be arrested and thrown into my prison until you speak.”

O
n his horse, Thomas stayed alongside his army as the mass of soldiers marched forward, creaky and bulky, but now with a sense of urgency. The enemy waited three days ahead.

Repeatedly during the day, the Earl of York wheeled his horse beside Thomas and relayed new battle information or confirmed old. It was a clear sign to the other earls that Thomas was fully part of the council of war. Yet Thomas wondered. Did the Earl of York have other reasons for pretending friendliness?

Thomas also noticed little laughter and singing in the marching column. No one had forgotten the grisly sights of the previous day.

“Druids,”
the old man had said.
“Beware those barbarians from the isle.”

The ones of the strange symbol and the terrifying acts of brutality!

As Thomas swayed to the gentle walk of his horse, he decided there was a way to find out more about Druids, even if the old man of mystery never appeared again.

First, however, there was the formal council of war as camp was made that evening.

The Earl of York wasted no time once all were gathered. “After tonight, there are only two nights before battle. Each of you have reduced by a third the fires in your camps?” he asked.

In turn, each lesser earl nodded, including Thomas.

“Good, good,” the Earl of York said. “Already their spies are in the hills. Observing. Waiting.”

“You know this to be true?” Frederick asked with slight surprise.

The Earl of York snorted. “Our own spies have been reporting for days now. Only a fool would expect the enemy not to do the same.”

“Their fires,” Thomas said, “what word?”

“The valleys they choose for camp are filled as if by daylight.”

Silence as each contemplated the odds of death against such an army.

The Earl of York did not permit the mood to lengthen. He continued his questions in the tone that made them sound like orders. “All of you have brave volunteers ready to desert our army?”

Each again nodded.

“Tomorrow, then,” the Earl of York said, “is the day. Let half of them melt away into the forest. The rest on the following day.”

He paused. “Slumber in peace, gentlemen. Dream only of victory.”

While all began to leave, the earl moved forward and discreetly tugged on Thomas’s sleeve.

“If this battle plan works, friend, your reward will be countless. If not”—the earl smiled the smile of a fighter who has won and lost many times—“it shall be man against man, beast against beast. What say you to that?”

“Then I shall fight bravely, m’lord.”

“No, Thomas. What say you to a reward? Let us prepare ourselves for the best. Ask now. What is your wish?”

Thomas thought of the ring. The symbol. And Druids.

Was the Earl of York part of the conspiracy to reconquer Magnus?
If so, would he still honor a promise made?

“Reward?” Thomas repeated quietly. “I would wish simply that you spoke truth to a simple question.”

The earl’s jaw dropped. He recovered quickly. “You have my word of honor.” Then he dryly added, “My friend, in fairy tales, most men ask for the daughter’s hand.”

Thomas snorted at the unexpected reply. During that moment, he felt at ease with the older man. “I would fear, m’lord, that the daughter might resemble too closely her father.”

The earl slapped his belly and roared laughter. “Thomas!” he cried. “You are a man among men. I see a destiny for the likes of you.”

Surely, Thomas told himself, this man could not be one of them.

T
homas cooked his own chicken over a fire to ensure his food would not be poisoned. He’d shared a portion of it with his guards, and taken the remainder with him as he walked to another vantage point.

The sun warmed his shoulders, and Thomas lifted the roasted chicken to his mouth. A rustle of leaves drew Thomas’s attention and he half-turned at the sound, just in time to see a cudgel swinging at his head.

He ducked, and the cudgel swooshed over him and cracked into the trunk of a nearby tree.

But there were two attackers, and as Thomas reached for the hilt of his sword, the second was more accurate, and a jarring blow from the other cudgel numbed his arm.

The first man dove at Thomas. He spun sideways to avoid the tackle, but that put him solidly up against a tree with no room to maneuver.

The second man swung again, and Thomas was only able to move his head slightly before the end of the cudgel banged his skull. It knocked him to his knees in a daze.

A third blow, across his ribs, sent him sprawling on the ground.

“Finish him off quickly,” one of the voices grunted, “before we’re discovered.”

“Gold,” Thomas croaked. “Take my gold.”

“Gold?” the second voice said.

“We’ve no time!” the first voice said. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

“How much time does it take to pluck his gold?”

“Here,” Thomas said, rolling slightly and reaching beneath him for a pouch. “I’ll give you all I have. Just spare me.”

“Hah!” the second voice said. “A coward after all.”

Thomas found his vision returning. Above him, the two men were grinning in triumph. There was nothing remarkable about their clothing, nothing to give an indication who they were or who had sent them. Just two men, easily in their twenties, with dark hair and bearded faces. Neither carried a sword. In a way, this was not surprising. Swords would have marked them as military men and forced them to wear colors that would identify which earl they served. Otherwise, they would have faced questions walking anywhere through the camp.

“Take his gold then,” the first growled. “Let’s get this done.”

Thomas pulled the pouch into his palm and untied the leather loop that kept it shut.

As the second man reached down, Thomas flung the pouch upward, and white dust sprayed from it.

Quicklime, used to strengthen mortar.

In losing his sword fight to Robert, Thomas had realized that while dust could be a weapon, quicklime was much better.

As the powder made contact with the eyes of the man above him, the moisture of his eyes turned the quicklime into a burning type of acid.

The man screamed, clawing at his face.

Thomas took advantage of the confusion to roll over twice, finding the hilt of his sword as he rose.

He managed to parry the downswing of the cudgel with his sword as the first attacker moved in.

In losing his sword fight to Robert, Thomas had also learned that there were times to push aside any impulse of mercy—that only ruthlessness would allow him to survive.

Without hesitation, Thomas punched as hard as he could, catching the man squarely in the nose.

The man howled, stepping backward.

Both of them clutched their faces.

“Kneel immediately,” Thomas gasped through his own pain, “or I’ll run you through with this steel.”

He needed them captured, and he needed to know who sent them.

Without a word, both dropped to their knees.

That’s when a blow from behind caught Thomas across the skull.

Thomas toppled forward, unconscious before hitting the ground.

W
hen Thomas became aware of the world again, he discovered he was blind. His hands were bound in front of him.

His head throbbed.

He was sitting upright, his back against what felt like a tree.

“You are awake,” a voice whispered from nearby.

He felt a caress against his cheek.

“You,” he said. “From the old man!”

“Yes,” she answered.

He felt coolness against his forehead. It felt like she was wiping his face with a wet cloth.

“Drink this,” she said. “It will lessen the pain.”

She held a cup to his lips and tilted it. He kept his own lips shut, and the liquid spilled down his chin.

“I’m not trying to poison you,” she said. “If I wanted you dead, I had plenty of time and opportunity as I bound your hands and blindfolded you.”

“If you had good intentions,” he retorted, “I would not be bound and blindfolded.”

“I had to do it to protect myself,” she answered. “You were in need of help, but I can’t risk my own capture.”

He said nothing to that. She had guessed accurately that if he could, he would not let her escape until she gave him more answers.

“Now drink. You can trust me.”

“I doubt that,” he grumbled. But this time, when she held the cup to his lips, he opened his mouth and drank. The liquid was bitter and he choked it down.

“It will take a few minutes,” she said. “I have placed a knife on the ground. To your left, a few paces away. If you crawl and feel around carefully, you’ll be able to find it. Then you can cut yourself loose and remove your blindfold.”

That would give her time to escape, he realized.

“Don’t go. Tell me what happened!”

“I was following you, and from a distance, I saw the attack of the first two. A third man snuck up behind you. He forced the other two away from you at swordpoint.”

“That makes no sense,” Thomas said. He groaned. “No sense at all. Who were the men?”

“The third,” she said, “wore the colors of the Earl of York.”

Someone sent by the earl had attacked him? Yet another reason not to trust a man he liked and wanted to trust.